


Fatherhood

by aintitnifty



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:03:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aintitnifty/pseuds/aintitnifty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>School plays, calls from the principal, tests, bullies, and birthdays. Four sons, unlimited problems. What's a father to do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fatherhood

**1.**

Dick’s heart feels like it’s thudding somewhere in the vicinity of his esophagus and he’s having trouble breathing. His palms are sweaty and he feels a little light-headed and he wants desperately to fidget, to twirl out a couple of cartwheels or walk on his hands a bit, but he was told to stay motionless and out of sight so he clamps down on those urges.

It’s boring, waiting here in the shadows. Nerve-wracking. But he was instructed to remain silent and wait for his cue, so he does just that.

Dick wonders if Bruce is already out there waiting for him to appear. That thought brings the nerves back, but in a good way. The idea that Batman – _the_ Batman – is waiting in the dark just to see Dick is… well, it’s kind of incredible. Dick feels a little overwhelmed with the responsibility, the privilege, of having that fierce attention all to himself.

It’s also slightly terrifying.

A light hand settles between his shoulder blades and Dick forces himself not to jump.

“It’s time, Dick,” Mrs. Jensen says with a smile. The stage lights glint off her glasses and Dick is momentarily blinded, and then he’s being shoved out onto stage and it’s time for him to say his lines.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the bright spotlights, but after he speaks a couple of lines and his character is allowed to fade into the background he lets himself glance out at the audience.

His heart sinks. There’s an empty seat out there that should be filled, a lone square of darkness in the midst of a smiling sea of proud faces. A cold, heavy weight settles in Dick’s gut and his eyes feel fuzzy and his throat suddenly thick but he swallows through the sensations. The play goes on.

He really shouldn’t be upset. This was expected, after all.

“Maybe we should call Nate the Great!” he says, loud enough to reach those sitting in the back of the auditorium, and it is the last line he speaks in this scene. He allows himself to close his eyes for a moment when the spotlight focuses on little Karen, throwing the rest of the stage into darkness. He takes one deep breath, two, using the meditative technique Bruce taught him. By the time he opens his eyes again there’s a broad-shouldered figure easing its way into that empty seat, clad in a dark suit, familiar face barely lit by the stage’s distant glow. Dick almost bursts into a grin, but then he remembers that he’s supposed to be acting serious and he swallows his giddiness down.

The first half of the play passes in a blur of adrenaline and euphoria after that and soon it’s time for the intermission. Dick peeks out at the audience before the curtain goes down and catches a glimpse of Bruce dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. Dick’s eyes narrow, and he hurries backstage.

The stage door is heavy but Dick manages to slip out through the crack and into the dim hallway. He hurries past lockers and darkened classrooms until he reaches the atrium. He spies Bruce standing nearby, holding the handkerchief to his forehead and speaking in low tones on his cell.

“Bruce,” Dick hisses, and Bruce looks up, startled. He says something into the phone and hangs up before walking over.

“Dick. Are you allowed to be out here?” he asks with a frown.

“No. What happened to your head?”

Bruce’s lips tighten and he lowers the handkerchief, revealing a sluggishly bleeding gash just above his left eyebrow.

“It’s nothing, it’ll be fine. One of Penguin’s birds got a lucky shot at me. Tore through the cowl and everything.” He smiles. “The play seems to be going well. Sorry I was late. Are you enjoying yourself?”

Dick’s eyes darken and his hands clench at his sides. He hates it when Batman works on his own. That’s why Robin was there, of course. To watch Batman’s back. To keep him from getting injured.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, turning away. “Don’t go anywhere!”

It takes only a moment for Dick to hurry backstage, rifle through Mrs. Jensen’s First Aid kit and return to Bruce in the atrium.

“Lean down,” Dick says, and his tone holds no room for argument. Bruce cocks his uninjured eyebrow and obeys, and Dick plasters a Band-Aid over the cut. He steps back to admire his handiwork, crumpling the wrapper in his fist. “There.”

“Dick, this Band-Aid has robots on it.”

“They’re called Transformers. And that doesn’t mean it won’t work.”

The lights dim once, twice, and Dick knows that’s his cue to head backstage. Impulsively, he leans forward and squeezes Bruce into a quick hug.

“Thank you for coming,” he says, voice muffled against Bruce’s jacket, and then he has to run back down the hall towards the stage door. He yells over his shoulder, “Leave that Band-Aid on or I’ll tell Alfred!” 

He swears he hears a chuckle before the heavy stage door swings shut behind him.

**2.**

He can feel the weight of eyes on him, glinting with silent disapproval in the rearview mirror. Jason does his best to avoid that gaze, instead choosing to watch downtown Gotham rush past the window. He touches a finger to his tender lower lip – _split right down the center, damn it_ – and hisses at the sting. There will be no hiding it, of course, hence Alfred’s stern stare. The butler’s expression is more disappointed than angry, though, and guilt curls its icy way into Jason’s stomach, making him fidget as the car pulls into Wayne Manor’s private drive.

“I’d recommend a quick wash before facing Master Bruce,” Alfred says once the car is parked outside the front of the house. “I’m sure he already knows about your brawl but that is no reason for you to carry around the evidence of it.”

“Right,” Jason grumbles. He swings his backpack over his shoulder and climbs out of the car. The Manor seems to loom larger than usual, its great dark windows gleaming down at him like judgmental eyes. Jason hunches his shoulders and trudges up the steps and into the foyer. The door slams too loud behind him and he winces as the noise echoes through the house. So much for stealth.

Jason catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror down the hall. Besides his split lip, there is dried blood under his nose and a swelling shiner under his right eye, not to mention the rip in his shirt and the dirt on his face and hair. Bruce will not be pleased.

Jason climbs the stairs as silently as he can, hoping to reach the bathroom and clean himself up a little before facing his guardian. He pauses at the top of the stairs. Only eighteen steps to get past the open door of Bruce’s office and into the bathroom.

Jason creeps along the opposite wall, careful to avoid the creaking floorboards, until freedom is within reach. He holds his breath as he passes the office door on tiptoe. Just a little further –

“I received a call from your principal today.”

Jason cringes and shuffles over to Bruce’s office door. Bruce is sitting at his desk, gaze fixed intently on the newspaper spread before him. He glances up briefly and motions for Jason to enter.

“Fighting again?” he asks, and there’s surprisingly little anger in his voice. That’s almost worse. Jason can handle yelling, but it’s the quiet disappointment that makes his cheeks and neck burning with shame. “I thought we had talked about this, Jason.”

“This time I didn’t start it,” Jason blurts. It sounds childish even before he says it and his cheeks redden further.

“I don’t care whether or not you started it,” Bruce says, eyes narrowing dangerously. “It never should have happened. It’s not fair for you to be fighting kids your own age. You should know that, Robin.” He puts emphasis on the title and Jason winces. Of course it isn’t fair for him to be fighting regular thirteen year-olds. They haven’t been trained by the Batman.

“But there were four of them,” Jason says, although he is almost positive it won’t help. “I thought it would be an even fight.” Bruce’s eyebrows arch and Jason really wishes he could melt into the carpet.

“Four?”

“Yeah.”

“And _was_ it an even fight?”

Jason scrapes at his ankle with the toe of his sneaker. “Mostly. They tried their best.”

Was that a hint of a smile on Bruce’s face…? No, whatever twitch of the lips Jason thought he saw was too fast and gone now, replaced by narrowed eyes and a stormy expression.

“Tell me, Jason,” Bruce says. “Were these boys committing any crime?”

Jason feels his heart sink. “No.”

“Were they hurting anyone?”

“Not really, but –”

“What do you mean, ‘not really’?”

“They were bullying Lizzie,” Jason blurts once again. Bruce goes quiet after that, just watching him, so Jason figures it can’t hurt for him to elaborate. “They kept calling her Piggy Lizzie and making fun of her hair and her clothes and even though they weren’t actually, _physically_ hurting her, she was crying and the teachers wouldn’t do anything so I made them stop. I was protecting the innocent, honest!”

Bruce says nothing for almost thirty whole seconds, just watching as Jason bites his split lip and rubs at the crusted blood on his face and waits for his punishment.

“Well?” he finally says, fed up with the silence, and Bruce sighs.

“I’m still not happy, Jason. You are grounded for the next two weeks, and your chores around this house will double. You will help Alfred with whatever he needs, no matter how ridiculous. Understood?” Jason nods; it’s about what he expected. “Now go clean yourself up and inform Alfred of your punishment. I’m sure he can find something for you to do before dinner.”

Jason pauses at the door to the office. He rests a hand on the doorjamb and glances back at Bruce, almost not willing to ask for fear of what the answer might be.

“What about patrol?”

Bruce barely glances up from his paper. “What about it?”

“Can I… am I still going with you?”

“Of course.” This time there’s no mistaking the hint of a smile. “We might run into some innocents who need protecting.”

**3.**

The trek to the mailbox is far too long, even at a full sprint, and Tim barely has time to appreciate the wind on his face and the pavement beneath his bare feet before he skids to a halt in front of the mailbox. One yank and the wrought-iron door swings open, revealing a thick pile of letters and catalogues. Tim grabs the whole pile and starts sifting through them without actually looking at them. He absently closes the mailbox with an elbow and starts the long walk back up to the Manor, feeling slightly deflated as he reaches the bottom of the pile, but then…

It’s here.

It came.

Tim freezes, staring at the plain white envelope addressed to him. He’s not entirely sure what to do next. His hands start to tremble, and then he tears the envelope open, unfolds the papers, skims, wishes, reads –

A grin spreads slowly across his face.

1450.

He got a _1450_.

Tim almost laughs out loud in relief and just barely resists the urge to bounce on his toes. This is definitely worth the extra three-week waiting period ( _damn website was down, no way to check scores online_ ) and now he can breathe a sigh of relief, because 1450 is a damn good SAT score, especially given the patrol he was forced to go on the night before his test ( _no one’s fault but Joker’s, really, but Dick still felt awful for asking for help while Bruce was working with the League_ ).

It’s silly, of course, that the first thing Tim thinks of when he sees that score is how much he wants to show it to Bruce. For one wonderful moment he wishes he were young again, able to run into the Manor with the test waving in the air like a banner, all grinning, laughing delight, ready to be praised and coddled and congratulated.

But that’s ridiculous.

Because as soon as the Manor comes into sight and Tim sees the Bentley waiting outside, ready for whatever event Bruce Wayne needs to attend this evening, reality comes snapping back. Bruce would never approve of that kind of behavior. Hell, he might not even care about Tim’s SAT scores. Tim was already a good student, after all, and a very good test taker. Good grades were an expectation, not an exception.

“Ah, Master Tim.” Alfred smiles at him when he enters the kitchen. “Anything good in the mail?”

“A few bills,” Tim says, tossing (most of) the mail onto the counter. “Can I have a glass of water, please?”

“Of course, sir.”

Alfred turns away to fill up a glass and Tim tunes out the faucet in an attempt to locate Bruce in the house. There is a dull hum coming from somewhere upstairs: a shower running.

“Where’s Bruce going tonight?”

“Master Bruce has a charity auction to attend,” Alfred says, handing Tim a glass. “The event of the season, apparently.”

“Oh.” Tim takes a sip of the water. “My SAT scores came in the mail.”

“And?”

“1450.”

It’s nice, Tim decides, the way Alfred’s entire face lights up with pride. Tim cannot help but smile back.

“That’s wonderful, Master Tim! Very well done. May I?” He holds a hand out and Tim hands him the sheet displaying his results.

The shower has stopped, and within a few minutes Bruce enters the kitchen, dress shoes clicking primly against the tiled floor, hair slicked back, fingers still working at his bowtie.

“You’ll be on your own for dinner tonight, Tim,” he says. “I’m not sure how long this damn auction is going to last so I called Dick in to accompany you on patrol.”

“Okay.”

“Ready, Alfred?” Bruce does not wait for an answer, just claps a bracing hand on Tim’s shoulder and leaves the room.

Alfred raises an eyebrow at Tim, clearly wondering why he did not mention his scores, but – ever respectful – he says nothing, just hands Tim’s results back to him.

“I will prepare dinner when I return,” he says. Tim nods and forces a small smile, and then he is alone in the kitchen. He does not move until he hears the roar of the Bentley as it pulls down the drive.

Feeling oddly numb, Tim places the sheet on the counter and leaves it there. He does not think about it for the rest of the evening and during patrol he only once mentions his score to Dick, who gives him a one-armed hug and an affectionate hair-ruffle of congratulations. By the time Tim returns to the Manor he is too exhausted to think about it, so he collapses into his bed and does not rouse until dawn.

The next day is a Saturday, but Tim knows that Bruce is at the office even before he makes it downstairs. There are little signs. Bruce’s open bedroom door, for one. Lingering steam in the bathroom down the hall from a recent hot shower. The smell of strong coffee wafting from the kitchen.

Tim trudges into the empty kitchen. Part of his sleep-mussed brain registers that his results are no longer lying on the counter, but the absence does not really sink in until he goes for the milk and realizes the paper is hanging by a magnet on the stainless steel refrigerator door. There is a bright green sticky note on it, and in neat slanted writing – unmistakably Bruce’s, and Tim’s stomach does a funny leaping thing at that – is written, “ _WELL DONE_.”

**4.**

“Any word?” Damian asks, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, and Grayson spins his chair away from the bank of screens in the Batcave to fix Damian with a sympathetic look.

“No. Sorry, kiddo,” he says. “But hey – no news is good news. Bruce would let us know if he were in trouble.”

Damian tsks irritably and swings down onto the Batmobile’s platform, intent on doing some tinkering to dispel his inexplicable anxiety. It’s not that he’s worried about his father, of course. Bruce Wayne is Batman. The original Batman. Surely he can hold his own, even when fighting God knows how many villains all by himself on the other side of the world.

“I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten,” Grayson says, his voice very quiet, and Damian freezes, one hand reaching for a wrench.

“Excuse me?”

“About your birthday. I don’t think he’s forgotten.”

Damian flushes and grips the wrench tightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Grayson. I’m not expecting anything. He isn’t even on this continent.”

“Sure, but tomorrow is the first birthday that you and Bruce will actually be able to celebrate together,” Grayson says, and suddenly he’s right behind him, resting a gentle hand on Damian’s hair. “He won’t miss it.”

Damian says nothing in reply, instead choosing to lose himself in the intricacies hidden beneath the hood of the Batmobile. He doesn’t even notice when Grayson finally leaves.

Later that night Damian lies awake and restless in bed, staring out at the half moon just visible through the part in his curtains. He feels tense and edgy, although he is not quite sure why. Of course he is not childishly excited about his birthday, which will officially come in – he glances at the glowing clock at his bedside – about eight minutes. And he knows Grayson is in for the night, given Drake’s surprising offer to take over patrol, so it’s not like he’s worried for Batman’s safety or anything.

There is no logical reason for him to be so riled up.

Two more minutes pass in silence, during which Damian absently worries his lip and bounces one of his feet under the covers, and then he hears it. The distinct muffled roar of an approaching Batplane.

He is surprised, at first, but then the surprise goes away when he realizes a part of him – the twitchy, antsy part – had expected to hear it all along.

The sound of the plane dulls and eventually dies away entirely as it pulls into the Batcave, and Damian finds himself even more restless at the return of silence. A multitude of questions come unbidden to his mind: Will his father go straight to bed? Is he injured? Will he still be around tomorrow morning? Was Grayson correct in assuming Bruce remembers what tomorrow is?

Damian’s cheeks flush at that selfish thought, and he buries his face in his pillow with a little growl. A minute passes in weighty silence, then another, and Damian peeks at the clock on the bedside table.

Two minutes left to midnight.

Damian huffs an exasperated breath and flips onto his back, glaring at the shadows on the ceiling. He still feels jittery and is about to climb out of bed to get a drink of water when he hears quiet footsteps on the stairs. His eyes go wide and he freezes halfway out of bed.

The footsteps pause outside his room and he slips back under the covers just as the door cracks open. Damian’s heart thuds wildly as Bruce walks over to the bed and he really, _really_ hopes Bruce can’t hear it, as he is determined to feign sleep.

He concentrates on keeping his breathing deep and even, despite his surprise when sure hands tug his rumpled sheets back into place. Damian can smell armor and sweat, something he is used to smelling only on Grayson, and it’s a safe scent, comforting and familiar. It suits Bruce perfectly.

A large hand comes to rest on Damian’s hair just as the clock chimes in the hall, and then he hears the rustling of dark cloth around him. He feels a gentle pressure at his temple that could have been a kiss if the man kissing him were not _Batman_ , and then he hears a low voice speak near his ear.

“Happy Birthday, Damian.”

Then the hand is gone and the comforting scent is gone and suddenly Damian feels very cold. He opens his eyes just in time to watch the ends of Bruce’s cape flaring as he reaches the door, and before he can stop himself he says, “Father. Wait.”

Bruce stops with one hand on the door.

Damian is not quite sure what to say at this point. He swallows nervously, and it is ridiculous for him to be nervous about speaking to his father, but it's not like he is exactly familiar with the protocol.

“Tomorrow,” he says, figuring that is a good enough place begin. “Will you… are you going to be around tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Would it be all right if we…” Damian hesitates, unsure of exactly how to word what he means. How did Collin always say it...? “If we… hung out? For a while?”

Bruce does not say anything for a moment and Damian thinks he is going to be denied, or that he said something wrong, but then his father smiles and looks at him and says, “I’m all yours.”

Relief spreads warm through Damian’s body and suddenly he does not feel quite so antsy.

“Good night, Father,” he says.

“Good night, Damian.”

The door whispers closed and Damian lies back down, eyes sliding shut. He is asleep within minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> And then they go to Disney World!
> 
> Or, you know. Something like that.
> 
> Once again, this was originally posted over on my LJ account. The original can be found [here](http://niftywithan.livejournal.com/23573.html#cutid1).
> 
> And yes, this is basically shameless fluff. But it was super fun to write.


End file.
